


You

by EurtemocMaerd



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Childhood, Christianity, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dessert & Sweets, Domestic Fluff, Dreams, First Kiss, Flash Fic, Flashbacks, Historical References, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Mentions of Myth & Folklore, Nationverse, Norway's Troll Phone, POV Second Person, Past Relationship(s), Plague, Portraits, Prophecy, References to Depression, Royalty, Separations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:07:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24121846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EurtemocMaerd/pseuds/EurtemocMaerd
Summary: One chapter a day for DenNor Week 2020 (11 to 17 May), run by @Pixetalia on Tumblr"You. My morning call. My first kiss. My comfort. My hygge. My fairytale prince. My fellow seafarer. My... friend. Idiot, you should know that I feel as much, perhaps even more, for you than you might ever feel for me. I just cannot bring myself to tell. Not yet. When the right time comes I will find the courage to let you in again, and until the day comes..."Wait for me."*************In which Norway observes Denmark's routines and habits, and reflects on their relationship throughout the centuries past and to come.
Relationships: Denmark/Norway (Hetalia)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Day 1 - A Dawning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Domestic
> 
> Dawning [n.]  
> 1\. Dawn; daybreak  
> 2\. A beginning  
> 3\. A realisation

Every day you would stir before me, and your yawn would be the cockcrow that would wake me. But I would often pretend to still be asleep, so that I could feel your cautious, tender touch when you lean down to run feathery fingers across my right cheek, the side not sunk into the soft pillows, dehydrated from the overnight coolness. I think a thousand years would pass and we would still be in awe at how great humankind would have come— would we ever truly get used to the comfort and ease of modernity? My thoughts and fancies would fly as such, as your movement and strange murmurs would attempt to pull me, one cognitive thread after another, into the reality of morning. Yet, I would never budge, except for a curl of the toes or an escaped smirk, pining for your routine to continue. You would shuffle out of our shared mattress, and when your feet touch ground your hand would find its way into your wild, wild hair, tousling it like you have always done since centuries ago. Your mane has always been like a lion’s, untamed and defying all laws of nature, and there I would lie in feigned sleep, reminiscing about a time when your hair had not been so light, but blazing like the scorching flames on kindling. Suddenly, you would stand, and leave the room in a sort of quietness quite strange for a loudmouth like yourself, as if you dared not wake me. You would be an idiot, then, to assume I would not be disturbed by your first movement. Nevertheless, at least you would attempt to ameliorate the damage. That is one endearing thing. Still, there I would lay unmoving for a good while, as you would change out of your nightwear for a quick rinse. Yes, you would do that, while I would enjoy the euphonious birdsong from outside our window and the clement sunlight enveloping the uncovered parts of my motionless body, awaiting your return. And you would return, with a breath of fresh mint and two cups of coffee, exactly the way we would like it made. Setting the cups on the nightstand on the right, the pinewood one, you would come back towards our bed, this time before me. You would never have noticed, but only my eyes would be closed, and I would be quite conscious when your dry lips would gently peck its way from my exposed neck to the centre of my forehead. Only then would I let my eyelids gradually unfurl, or let my arms wrap themselves around your well-toned body, grown increasingly robust across the years. Then my lips would meet yours as our backs arch in the tight embrace, and we would stay that way for the next half hour or so, drowning in our brief moment of ecstasy.

“God morgen, Norge,” you would try to whisper (in an adorably unsuccessful seductive way). “Your coffee’s on the—”

“I know.”


	2. Day 2 - A Touch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Vikings/First Kiss
> 
> Touch [n.]  
> 1\. A movement resulting in close contact  
> 2\. An emotional influence  
> 3\. A small detail that makes something better  
> 4\. An ability to know what something is like by feeling it  
> 5\. An ability to do things in a certain way  
> 6\. Communication

We would be cuddling on the couch by the fireplace after a long day, while the harsh north winds would breathe frost onto the heathers and daisies in our little garden. Our arms would tangle, followed by our legs, until our bodies and lips could clasp onto each other with some sort of graceful ease. It wouldn’t be often for such intimate moments to be possible, for our nature of being would have become more complicated than what we used to be accustomed to. We would no longer be merely embodiments of people, but also complex and abstract ideologies and fluctuating economies. We would no longer be wildling and free children roaming the snow-capped mountains and traversing the turbulent seas, but tools to be manipulated for mortal gains. Our lips would touch, and for a flash your bright crystalline eyes would dim, recalling the centuries you would so regret, and the one in which we would be forced apart. All the more reason we would treasure this fleeting peace, too long overdue. When that would happen, I would smile, but not without chagrin. Then I would find my own hand reach for your short sideburn, sweeping a few unruly strands behind your reddened ears, and ask if you could remember our first kiss. You would nod, then shake your head immediately thereafter. I would nudge or push in playful disappointment then, and breathe a quiet laugh as I lean onto your broad shoulder.

For I remember our first kiss, like yesterday. 

It was a time when I was still taller than you, and your elder in both physical age and experience. It was a time when Sverige’s voice was sweeter than a nightingale’s, when I was still merciless with unsatisfiable ambitions, when we knew nothing of a Nation’s plights. You had just converted, and I was still adamantly rejecting your persistent invitations to Christendom. I was furious at you for being treacherous, and you at me for obstinacy. For weeks we hadn’t spoken, until you came to me with a cross you had carved yourself. A sort of gift. A sort of peace offering.

“Bror, I don’t want to fight anymore,” you said, your baby blue eyes almost blurred with emerging tears. “I made this for you. Could we be best buddies again?”

“Are you mocking me? Is this fun for you?” I did not raise my voice as much as I had wanted to, but I could feel my teeth bar and chatter, jaw and fist both tightening, resisting the urge to tear the wooden accessory into pieces. They said the cross, and the religion it represented, was hope, love and salvation, but all I knew was that it ruined our Gods, our culture, our people. All I could see at the moment, was unadulterated hatred. Still, I had not been so cruel as to destroy what you have made for me, of course. 

I took the cross in my hand, and threw the cross away, as far as I could. 

Your smile fell, excitement fading away into disappointment. Uneasily you shuffled your feet, listlessly staring into your fidgeting fingers to avoid my glare. The tears, held back with so much difficulty, poured out of your bright eyes and down your pale, freckled cheeks like two rushing waterfalls. You turned, and ran away. You had not returned past supper time.

I remember the night sky was clear, almost cloudless, when I left to search for you. Yet, you were nowhere. At least not anywhere near the longhouse Mor Scandia had left us. It was just past the fifth patch of saxifrage that I felt fear for the first time in my life. Strange, you would remark, and I would admit. Even as a newborn and dependent Nation I could not be frightened enough to bat an eye at the violence of nature and humanity, and yet there I was, learning to fear from not being able to trace your tracks.

Fearing that I had lost you, by my own doing.

The night was cloudless, I can recall clear as day, and the moon shone a mellow light that illuminated one wilting bush against its dark surroundings. I had approached it, thinking you could have gone down that path with your love for all that was lucent and bright, and halted midway for something else that lay on the earth.

A handcrafted cross.

Your handcrafted cross.

I remember almost screaming. Whether it was in fright or in relief I cannot tell. All that I am sure about is that I had picked it up nearly ceremoniously, ran down the moonlit path towards the river, found you sobbing your eyes out with your voice weary and hoarse from doing so all day, wrapped my arms around you in the tightest embrace I could muster, and kissed you fully on the lips, salty with the tears that stained them.

“And you would never let me go ever since, pestering me day and night and night and day, like an annoying dog,” I would say as we lay on the couch, my head leaning into your broad shoulder. “You know, Sve always complains that my taste is too salty, which is bull of course. But if it really is so, you should know it’s because of that kiss, and it’s all your fault.”

You would laugh until you were almost choking, as your fingers run through my hair to where the cross still lay. Your head would bow, and your lips would touch it.

“Bror, what the hell.”

And you would laugh and laugh and laugh, until I would turn over to saddle you, and reclaim your lips as mine.


	3. Day 3 - A Turn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Comfort
> 
> Turn [n.]  
> 1\. A change in direction  
> 2\. An illness; a nervous shock  
> 3\. An opportunity to do something in a particular order, before or after someone else

You would be there by my side all along when I would fall so steeply from my peak, but when it would come your turn to fall I could not be with you.

You would refuse to leave my side throughout the Black Death, despite your own fevers and ailments. I would slip in and out of consciousness from the devastation amidst my lands and people, barely aware of the others trying to get you to leave for one single moment, albeit in vain. It would always be you that fed me in my illness-induced delirium, helped me up to bathe every Saturday, and distracted me with wondrous fairytales whenever I would be distraught with nightmares. When Sve and Fin would help take care of our nations and colonies you would be at my side tending to my every need, until I would gain enough strength to sit up, and walk again. As I gradually recovered you would fill in for roles my weakened self could no longer play for our family, and while your kings would forget my people you would always find a way to give me more than you should be supposed to. Perhaps it was blindness, but I could not find fault in you even in the darkest nights. Your brash hostility seemed to only extend as far as to Sverige, but your kings could rave and ravage and I would still convince myself at that time that you meant well. It was the only way I could be comforted, and you would always have been my source of comfort, in hurt and in health.

With one defeat after another in the continuous and increasingly meaningless wars you would meet the end of your own greatness. Idiot, it would be true you would sign the treaty, but you should know I could never blame you for a pact Sve and that thick-browed bastard would have made amongst themselves. You should know the fury I would direct at you when you lost the war and me would not be from learning of your stupid mistakes, but from learning the magnitude to which Sve’s newfound power had him blinded. You should know how hard I would try to stifle my tears upon leaving Copenhagen overnight to save us from further shame and humiliation, for I could not be at your side to wipe your tears nor treat your wounds when you awake. You should know how I could not bring myself to eat or sleep the first three months in Stockholm, all because Lillebror wrote to me about every stupid thing you would do to try to end your life while bemoaning my absence, and the guilt that I could not give you solace anymore would be so unbearable that they would pierce through my heart like a million spears. I would see you across the hall in dances, or across the table in conferences, trying your best to conceal any trace of destitution with an obnoxious smile. But you would really be an idiot if you would think I couldn’t see through you, after all these years. And you would be even more of an idiot if you would actually think I no longer cared about you and was instead enamoured with a sulky Swede (who only found comfort in making me accept his affections for his lost Finn) of all people. You should know all those diplomatic meetings would be the occasions that hurt more than anything ever could, because they would always remind me of the helplessness in being unable to comfort the person I have always loved.

The person who shall always be my comfort, but whom I could not comfort in his darkest times.


	4. Day 4 - A Living

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Sweets/Fantasy
> 
> Living [n.]  
> 1\. A way of life  
> 2\. A means to sustain life  
> 3\. The state of being alive

We would agree in International Conventions to minimise chances for humans to recognise what we are, but you would often forget about it like the airhead you have been since the beginning of time.

For hundreds of years you would roam the streets of your Capital’s city centre, giving out sweets and pastries to your children while trying to convince them that you were the immortal Holger Danske, and that the bearded man sleeping in a cave was an impostor. The toddlers would believe you, the slightly older ones would laugh with you, and the teenagers would laugh at you. Nonetheless, they would all accept your homemade assortments of liquorice and chocolate and caramel and whatnots, and go about their day in a slightly merrier light. There would be one time that a particularly mischievous (or gullible, though I doubt that) child wrote about you, your candies, and your preposterous claims, on the Internet, and the wild conspiracies that ensued would nearly spark an emergency crisis situation for all Nations. You would be told off, and be forced to give up on the habit. Yet, less than a year afterwards, you would resume your tradition of going into town every Friday like nothing ever happened, stuffing your children full with your sweets like a senile but well-meant grandmother (or a witch in German fairytales, if you slice it the other way).

I would tell you off time and again for potentially exposing our kind, which could then lead to deadly consequences, especially for our fellow Nations facing dire situations in their own lands. Moreover, as I would tell you, times would change. Modern children, especially yours, would be having everything they could ever want on their fingertips. Folklore and sweets would no longer give them the happiness they need, after all. They would rather you gave them an extra like or a new follower on those meaningless social media posts.

“If that’s really so, the more reason I have to do this!” You would grin idiotically, stirring the mixture of molasses and sugar over the stove. “It is the most barren ground that we should try our best to flower. Happiness works that way too, Nor. You of all people should know that.”

And the next day you would proceed as usual, flowering minds with sweet promises. Promises to your children that they should see the silver lining on every rain cloud. Promises to yourself that you would continue to try doing so with them, and with their future children too.

You should have been human. Perhaps then you wouldn’t have to pretend anymore, just to feign all this happiness and enthusiasm. I would know how tepid tears stain your pillow every night as you lie awake, hiding from the dreams, reconstructions of our unfortunate past. I would know how you would sometimes leave our bed in the middle of the night, crack open half a dozen bottles of Carlsberg and drink yourself into oblivion. I would know how absurd it would be to say that you live up to the title of happiest Nation, when I could swear Lillebror with all his juvenile angst would make a better candidate than you could ever be. You would sow your sweet seeds in the mortal gardens of your people’s minds, and speak of all that hygge wisdom, but you would never stop to consider tending to your own parched garden, thirsting to flourish again.

Yet, as a human, as just another candyman on the streets of Copenhagen, you could forget. Then, freed from your profoundest thoughts, perhaps you could finally live out your hyggelig philosophies, and be truly happy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It is a rare happening but this chapter has immediately become one of my favourite pieces of writing once words flowed out of the keyboard. I hope you enjoyed reading this short chapter as much as I did writing it ;)


	5. Day 5 - A Care

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Fairytale
> 
> Care [n.]  
> 1\. A process of providing for the needs of someone or something  
> 2\. Attention given to something or someone, so that they are looked after, protected, or dealt with  
> 3\. A worry; a concern

Every once in a while a Nordic gathering would end up in a circle, where each of us would take turns to tell stories with some twists or surprises towards the end. You would always draw from your smorgasbord of fairytales, which you would claim far too frequently to be inspired by us.

Whenever you would bring that up, I would wonder if you were actually the mermaid from that fairytale of yours, and I your cruel prince. Or the other way round.

For centuries you would call me brother or buddy, but we both knew that was not it. There had always been something unspoken yet apparent, but neither of us would ever dare to admit, even when we would be arranged into a “marriage” of sorts. When we were younger we couldn’t, because we were raised like blood siblings and had not yet fully grasped the nature of a Nation’s existence. When we grew older we couldn’t either, because our budding societies began teaching us codes we must follow, and we would come to learn the structure of hierarchies and our respective places in them. With every attempt of yours to act domineering and mine to act genteel our relationship would become more warped, and in time I would find myself unable to express much anymore, even less so confess a sentiment so profound and personal.

In time I would find myself blinded, doubtful of whether such feelings of adoration and loyalty were really love, or simply a product of centuries’ worth of indoctrination from being at your mercy. After all, our innocent kisses on equal footing would turn out to have somehow transformed into raucous, rough rounds in our chambers, reeking of alcohol, which would often begin with someone being pushed back until he leaned against the walls or lay defenceless on the mattress. Sometimes it wouldn’t even matter if we both wanted it or not, and we would agree that it was indeed too carnal to be considered a confession of willing commitment. Your lips could be on mine from a fit of fury after another lost battle, and I would lie motionless dreaming of a day when we would return to how we had used to be as children at sea. Centuries would pass, and I would still be there, waiting.

It would only become even harder to admit our feelings as we would come of age and survive the modern world’s warfares, or rather a perverted and inglorious version of what we would have formerly known to be war. As our roles would become more complicated and obscure for our people I would find myself less and less able to reciprocate the passion and tender signs of affection you still would shower me with (as discreetly as you could), but I couldn’t bring myself to accept it. Times would change so much that a simple gesture of friendship among two Nations could cause international uproar, severe diplomatic ties and bring about economic sanctions. We would change so much that a kiss on the cheek or a pat on the back could have unthinkable implications that potentially undermine our respective independence, too fragile a thing. I would be convinced to push you away despite my heart’s calling, just to preserve a shred of myself and prevent the recent dawn to fall back into night again. One rejection after another could not make you relent, however, as if you were a lost puppy that would not leave my curb until I took you in and made you my own. Time after time I would shut you out of my door, insisting that you no longer had business in my people’s affairs. Decades would pass, and you would still be there, waiting.

You would remember our first meeting to be when Mor Scandia found you across the Sound and brought you into our house that summer morning, but you would be wrong. Long before that I had once found you stranded unconscious on a shore of mine, and, knowing at once you had your own land and people, I had hauled you onto a small raft with all my might and rowed you across the sea to return you home.

If I asked for a rose, would you sing like the Nightingale, with thorns dug deep into your guts, just so the plant would agree to be plucked for my sake? Should we not have confessed our feelings at all, would you have gladly jumped into the ocean and be dissolved into foam like the immortalised mermaid? Would you endure Gerda’s plightful journey across the continent to bargain with the Snow Queen for my soul, even when the evil shards of glass had transformed me into a merciless and bloodthirsty monster drunk with power?

Because I would.


	6. Day 6 - A Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Royalty/The Sea
> 
> Reflection [n.]  
> 1\. A serious thought or consideration  
> 2\. An image of one's likeness seen on another surface  
> 3\. A sign or result of something

You would have just become taller than me for the first time when sitting for the portraits, like children of royalty. I would always declare, and you would probably agree, that the worst part of the painting process would be neither the stuffy, uncomfortable cosmetics, nor remaining in one position for hours on end, but rather the tactics we would have to employ to coax the children into sitting for them. Both our monarchs’ children, and our own. That is the problem of civility, I always say, and would always continue saying. Too rigid, too phony, too grim.

If I could have had a choice as an infant I would never have left the forests and fjord valleys and perhaps remained there for the rest of my life, with the trolls and the elves and hulder. If I had a choice I would not have given up our expeditions through the seas at all, let alone settle down anytime soon. Sure, nature is not perfect. No, far from it. It is anarchic and perilous, and a stray footstep or steering of the wheel could warrant imminent obliteration. I would not pretend that the violent means involved in expansions and conquests were noble either. There were necessary slaughters, and unnecessary ones, and even among the former the bloodshed was often senseless. Still, (and I would be sure you would agree) we would take that turbulent, vagrant way of life over the abundance of gold and marble and fancy linens any day. Being on a jewelled throne in an opulent hall does not mean that you would be free from slaughter. On the contrary, the massacres would be even more prevalent and gruesome, only packaged more nicely, neatly, discreetly. Sometimes it would be worse than physical hurt, and we would know better than anyone else, as if a mindless statue were trying to creep into your bloodstream and climb into your human skin, until you were nothing but a figurehead, a mere puppet with a crown in a fancy gown. It would probably have never occurred on you, but every once in a while the sight of Lillebror struggling to even stand straight beneath his own heaves of embroidered dress would induce a terrible feeling inside me. Civilisation would give us wonders, marvellous and unimaginable manners of living, but I could not help feel pity and regret. Dan, we were poor children. But at least we were free, and we were honest.

Yet, there is one regret of those times, and I am sure you would agree. We keep artefacts and monuments and scribbles of who was where when for what, but we would have no concrete chronicle.

There would come a day that people remembered our childhoods at sea but the truth they could learn would only be inferred, from tales passed down by word of mouth, things dug up from several feet under, from heirlooms and from the testimony of people we had terrorised. No one would be able to remember for sure how we spoke and dressed and ate and in general grew up, and those who do would only recall scattered fragments. The sea had nurtured us into the peoples, the Nations, we would become, and yet the memory of our seaborne childhood, the journeys that defined us, would inevitably fade away or take on some sort of inaccurate rendition in memory. Because the sea had always been etched into our hearts and beings, and there was no way— no need— to chronicle it.

Yet, this prosperous era of civilisation, and its palaces of gold and marble, would be different. With the letters we would write, the histories we would author, and the numerous portraits we would be made to sit for, there would be no need for future inference and implications. Children would be taught to recite all the Christians and Frederiks and the battles they would wage (which to us Nations would all soon prove kind of meaningless in the long term). Perhaps some would even come to the conclusion of defining us by what orders had been given from that oversized chair in that palatial echo chamber, what conventions had been signed by our cold, faceless hands to fell cities for temporary gain. Some would choke on overdoses of caviar in fits of decadent passion while most struggle to bear their weight through cultivating whatever would be left of the scarce share nature had divided for us, which was one of the reasons we had once ventured into the seas in the first place. Call me a cynic if you would, but perhaps the only barbarians humans would want to recall are the ones draped in pearls and furs, and never rough linen.

We would be lucky they did not request the smaller children for this picture, so it would be just you, me, and Sverige. Thinking about things like that usually would not be the best sanctuary for hours of stiff sitting and boredom, but it would do, and by the knowing glance you would dart my way I would be inclined to think that you agreed. As the unbearable time passes further Sve would mutter something ridiculous, inaudible to the painter, and we would breathe out our laughter as quietly as we could manage. As my seat would be directly facing the window I would then watch for the first signs of sunset, and as it would happen make some sort of signal, perhaps curling a strand of hair or crossing my legs. You would always catch it, and immediately, in a boisterous fit bordering on impudence, coerce the human into letting us go. More often than not Sve would turn to leave first, with you chasing after him, and I after you. For a while the ornate corridors would seem to be transformed into a deck of sorts with nothing but wooden planks, or a snow-capped knoll like the ones we used to trek. For that short minute, we would no longer be royalty, but children again.

Those would be the years our people would remember clearly, in images and writing, but we both would know it is what they forget that we recall most vividly, and hold most dearly. Let them drown in modern luxuries. We know the truth is in the sea.


	7. Day 7 - A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: Mediaeval/Fluff/Norwegian Constitution Day (May 17)
> 
> Dream [n.]  
> 1\. An event or condition that you hope for very much  
> 2\. A series of events or images that happen in your mind when you are sleeping

I see myself, an older version of myself, standing on a pedestal for a grandiose coronation in a church. From the weather I guess it would be mid May, but I cannot be sure. That older me would be stern-faced, but beneath the cold impassive eyes I can see surging pangs of emotions, a mixture of pride and exhilaration and care and nervousness and gratitude and more that almost shouts jubilantly.

“At last, I’m here!” Those eyes would cry. “At last, morning has broken. And here I am now!”

You would be there. Your older self. And Sve’s. And Lillebror’s. And basically anyone of our kind you can think of right now. And the ceremony would pass, and we would shake hands like civil strangers, and there would be parties and dances and feasts, and I would get so festively drunk that I would black out, and—

* * *

I woke up in our longhouse, with you, still a child like I am, curled up by my side, snoring.

Every night for the past week I have been experiencing these strange visions of what we would witness and become, like some sort of prophecy. Would it all come true? Perhaps it will, I thought to myself, my hand unconsciously reaching up to feel the cross you had made for me so recently. The same one I had discarded and retrieved that day, the same one that led to our first kiss. To imagine it would last for hundreds— even thousands— of years without disintegrating! Danmark, tell me, do you know magic too?

If that would all be true someday, what does it mean for us? What are we, and where are we going? Well, I cannot tell yet, but I’m sure it means those cynical Christians won’t need to worry about the end of the world anytime soon. After all, we still have at least a thousand years to go that will end up in you and me, as adults, tending to gardens and snuggling every morning. A thousand years that will topple everything we think we now know about our world, pulling us closer while driving us apart. Yet, even after all that turbulence, we would still somehow find our ways back in each other’s arms. Older, sadder, wiser.

In the darkness of our home I turned towards you, sound asleep. You always sleep so deeply, with the most fantastic and colourful dreams to tell us all about when morning arrives. Yet, at the sight of your serene, slumbering face the visions seeped in again, with your bright eyes tearful and your disillusioned form slumped on the large furniture. Merciful Gods, must all of those things happen in conjunction? Can mercy not be granted to leave out those sleepless, nightmare-infested nights of the future? I cannot bear the thought of losing your genuine smile, or that any of us must endure terrors that alter our natures to grow, to achieve that seemingly perfect life promising of sweet domesticity.

I suppose you never felt my hands brush your pale, freckled cheeks as you dream, but of course I might be wrong. You could be like my future grown-up self, just pretending to be asleep while savouring my affectionate touch. Anyway, your eyes are not unfurling, so my fingers gradually slid up into your wild fiery hair, combing it listlessly. All of a sudden my lips involuntarily curled upwards, and my face was flushed with inexplicable warmth. My heart skipped a beat.

When you wake me up in that bed of ours a thousand years later, will you feel this way too?

You. My morning call. My first kiss. My comfort. My hygge. My fairytale prince. My fellow seafarer. My... friend. Idiot, you should know that I feel as much, perhaps even more, for you than you might ever feel for me. I just cannot bring myself to tell it all. Not yet. Times will change and we will too, and too many things will happen to allow people like us to take a break at all. Nevertheless, I know that when the right time comes, I will find the courage to kiss you again, to let you in again. Of course, I know you’re sleeping right now and will not hear this anytime soon, but, please, until that day comes…

Wait for me.


End file.
